26. Solivagant
Solivagant
Isaak
The matrix of blinding white light gleamed through the diffuser polycarbonate sheet, searing the discrete liquid crystals – it seeped through the colour filters, set to vivid red, lighting up each pixel of the display.
The crimson light of the screen illuminated a boy, about eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on the beige rug that his parents had bought half a decade before.
The boy looked at his hands, letting go of the black-and-white gamepad. They were bathed in what looked like blood.
Fear – no, curiosity – gripped him.
In bold uppercase letters, the word GUNKATANA beamed from the television onto his face. A digital apparition, accompanied by a loud clash of swords.
The boy picked up the gamepad, and pressed a squishy soft button in the middle. With a white flash the red blood and the words vanished, and the screen faded in from black.
A lone man – the solivagant – in grey jeans and a black top, sword in hand, stared at a faraway mountain.
Directly ahead of him were several people, dotted along the winding path through the snow.
Above them, the stars in the sky shone with impossible saturation.
Bright lines connected constellations – a thin layer of thousands of perfectly shaped spheres hovered just below the clouds, like they had been jet-sprayed onto a dome, with a holographic, glossy effect.
The man aimed the sword at the nearest person – full-body armour done up in feudal Japan style, but fabricated with modern materials, their head covered in beige bandages. A soldier.
He pressed his finger onto a trigger attached to his sword’s grip. A bullet shot out of the blade, soaring through the night air.
The plastic bullet made the soldier’s neck its new home, a gush of red pixelated blood spurting out. The soldier’s knees buckled and they fell over, dead.
Unaware of the lone man and of their dead companion, the other soldiers kept to their tight patrol routes.
Hopping onto the snowy path, the solivagant made his way to the soldier’s fresh corpse. He flipped the body and removed the modernised kabuto helmet. A woman with raven-black hair.
The next soldier along the path glanced in the lone man’s direction. The solivagant slid over the churned-up white floor towards them. By their body language, the soldier might have spotted him. But they quickly turned away and resumed their patrol.
Crawling deep in the snowy grass, the lone man continued his approach, the firearm-sword attached to his back. It would be just a few more metres before he could bury that blade deep in his target’s neck.
“I told you, it’s just work.”
“It doesn’t look like it. You talk more about her than about us.”
“Stop… Stop! I’m leaving!”
“What? What about Isaak?”
“You take care of him. You’re the one who wanted a kid.”
Anguish took over the lone swordman’s face. He shook his head and pressed on. Nearly there.
His arm brushed a twig, breaking it. The soldier looked behind him, mouth agape, and shouted to the others.
Soon the solivagant was surrounded. Seven soldiers, each wielding a different melee weapon, walked in a circle around him, pointy ends aimed at their prey. Slowly they closed in.
The man glanced to his sides, hoping for a way out, but there was no way but through. With his combination sword and pistol raised high, he leapt towards one of the soldiers – a woman with blonde hair wrapped in bandages, her chest encased in the plastic-leather armour – swinging the blade at her.
She defended his attacks easily, wakizashi in one hand and tanto in another. She was in shape – they all were. With a swipe she sent the lone man to the floor.
His heart rate increased as he slid across the snow.
He got up and with a slice of his sword took down the closest soldier, severing an arm that flailed in the air until it hit the ground, staining it red.
A blood sacrament.
The remaining six soldiers reacted in unison, repositioning themselves into attack stances. The blonde woman furrowed her brows, then unwrapped the bandages around her face and hair. The ends of her hair were dyed blue.
A shock of recognition hit the lone man, yet he couldn’t put a name to her face. She was in charge, and she motioned the others onward, then stepped back to watch. She dug her blades into the ground and crossed her arms, waiting for the others to do her dirty work.
The soldiers rolled, ran, and leapt at him, an array of polearms, blunt weapons, and short blades in their hands. He took on two at a time, dodging and weaving his way through their attacks.
His swift movements guided their attacks towards each other, and soon the first two were dead.
The next two tried their luck, waving their weapons at him, and with the dexterity of a practised swordsman he sliced and diced until their pixel blood pooled in the snow.
The solivagant aimed his sword at the remaining grunt.
The soldier ran at him with full force, morning star held high, belting out a war cry, clearing the distance between them at speed, not a glance wasted on the digital corpses of his comrades.
At the apex of his swing, so close to the lone swordsman, the solivagant fired his weapon.
The plastic bullet travelled out of the sword’s hilt, rushing past the top edge of the blade, speeding through its deadly tip.
It hit the soldier in the chest. The morning star flew into the air. His body crumpled to the ground.
Once again, blood painted the snow.
It was just him and the woman now, the one with the face he couldn’t place. The blue-on-blonde dyed hair looked so familiar.
She smiled, then raised her wakizashi and tanto in one quick motion.
The lone man slashed his own sword in the air. Blood arced onto the floor. Blade clean.
She dove at him. He readied himself, finger on the hilt-trigger, tip aimed at the base of her neck.
As he prepared to fire the Gunkatana, her expression changed from rage into fear and surprise.
His finger felt the metal of the trigger.
Darkness engulfed them both.
The boy was back in the living room. A hand moved away from the sleek black console, its light dead.
“No more games, Isaak. Go to your room!” his dad shouted.
A feeling swelled in the boy for which he didn’t have a word yet.
He’d come to call it… disappointment.